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[personal profile] pyrrhiccomedy
Title: Little Lights
Originally posted: Here, for [ profile] youkofujima
Length: 2000 words (oh God I can't believe I wrote 2000 words about this)
Characters/Pairings: Russia/America.
Premise: The boys check into a good old-fashioned American autohotel by mistake.
Time period: 1980s
Smuttiness: 4/10
Funnyness: 8/10
Wrist slashiness: 2/10
Warm-and-fuzziness: 6/10
Lolhistoryness: 2/10
Violence: 0/10
Would I like it?: Apparently I will write about absolutely anything if you catch me at 3 AM. WARNING: THIS FIC CONTAINS MARVIN GAYE LYRICS.

I am so very sorry, about so very much.


"America," Russia reflected, "There is a mirror on the ceiling."

America was in the bathroom, unpacking his toiletries and blushing up to the backs of his ears. He said nothing.

"There is only one bed," Russia went on, "And there is a mirror on the ceiling."

Toothbrush. Toothpaste. Hair comb. Dental floss. Deodorant. Oh God. There are complimentary condoms in the soap basket. America snatched them up and shoved them in his pocket.

"It is a big bed," Russia allowed.

America wished he were dead.

"But I think I will only fit across the middle of it," Russia finished, "Because it is round."

"I didn't think this was this kind of a hotel," America managed. He cast around the bathroom for anything else that would be hideously embarrassing. Not hard, given the immense jacuzzi--it was like a God damned swimming pool, and it had a scented bubbles setting, fuck fuck fuck--

"There's a mannequin wearing a harness in the closet," Russia said, surprised.

America braced his forehead against the wall and whimpered. "It's fine, you know," he eeked out. "It was just, you know, we had to stop driving, and it was, it was, a hotel, and it's like--it's fine, seriously, it's fine, I'll just--I can sleep on the floor. Seriously. It's okay. I don't mind."

Russia's voice came from two feet away. America jumped. "I couldn't hear you," he said mildly. Wide eyes flicked around the pink tile bathroom. He raised his eyebrows at the bottle of self-heating massage oil next to the sink.

America looked straight at him, slumped deeper against the wall, and whined, "I'm going to throw myself out a window, if that's okay."

"You can't." Russia looked over his shoulder back into the bedroom. "This room doesn't have a window--"

America tried to shrink back more and ended up stumbling one foot into the jacuzzi. "I didn't think this was that kind of a hotel," he stammered again.

"What kind of hotel is this?" Russia squatted and rummaged through the cupboards under the sink. America's heart leapt into his throat. He hadn't checked there.

"It's the kind where…you know…"

Russia's voice echoed inside the cabinet door. "No, I honestly don't."

I'm going to kill myself. I'm seriously going to kill myself-- "It's the…kind of hotel that…rents by the hour." He squeezed his eyes shut.

"Why would they do that?" America heard the cabinet door thunk closed, and then Russia's voice wasn't muffled anymore. "What's this?"

America opened his eyes. He nearly fainted. His heel skidded on the floor of the jacuzzi. "Th-that's a ring gag."

Russia turned the thing over in his hands; the rubber strap that went around the back went flop. "Oh…how does it work?"

"Y-you put the…see, the ring goes in your mouth, to hold it open, a-and…" What am I saying?! "Look, it was probably left behind by a guest, it's probably not sanitary, I mean who knows where it's been, put that down!" he squeaked.

Russia gave him a bemused smile, still on one knee on the floor. "You're very knowledgeable about these things, aren't you?"

"No!" America's palms tingled with cold sweat.

"What about this? I found it stuck between the pillows…" Russia held the thing out.

"That is a remote controlled bullet vibrator and stop looking at me like that."

Russia dumped his handful of treasures onto the sink counter, and stood. "Is it from Japan? Is that where you learn these things?"

"No! I don't! I don't know anything! Why don't you know about this stuff? I thought you'd had sex with like half of Europe!" America's other foot stumbled on the edge of the jacuzzi and huddled in to join the rest of him.

Russia frowned, a flicker of hurt in his eyes. "There is no sex in the USSR, America."

America sank into the basin of the tub and hid his face against his knees. "I know," he moaned, miserable, and knotted his hands in his hair. "There's love, instead."

"There also aren't any hotels like this." Russia cast around for a few more seconds, then went out into the hallway. A few seconds later, America heard, bright and pleased, "Oh! They rent the rooms by the hour so people can have sex!"

America tipped his head back against the wall, and his skull went ponk against the tile.

A few seconds later, even more delighted: "The bed sloshes!"

America blinked a few times, then crawled back to his feet. "It does what?"

He entered the bedroom to find Russia bouncing on the edge of a round red velvet water bed, tipping back and forth as it went glug glug, glug glug. It was an image he would never forget.

"Please stop that," he said meekly. He swayed, and his shoulder hit the wall.

Russia looked up, caught sight of himself in the mirror overhead, and flopped back. Two or three small silk pillows slipped to the floor and skittered away. "Why didn't you tell me you had places like this?" Russia sounded genuinely curious.

"Because they're--they're skeevy!"

"'Skeevy,'" Russia mused. He bucked. The bed sloshed again. America tried to shut his eyes, but his eyelids were--not working right or something, it was weird-- "I don't know this word, 'skeevy.'"

America crossed the floor and started collecting the scattered throw pillows. He tucked them into a pile under his arm. "They're, they're--sinful! And creepy! And, and--unsanitary!"

"I think the room looks very clean…"

"It's probably covered in fluids," America squeaked. "Fluids!"

Russia smiled up at his reflection.

"Fluids of an impure nature!"

"Yes, I understand." Russia sat up. His scarf hung half-open. America wrenched his eyes from the older nation's throat to his face.

"What I do not understand--" Russia beckoned him. America started forward, stopped, started forward again, like a nervous cat. He had half a dozen pink pillows jammed against his chest, and his hair hung into his face in wisps. "Is how a nation can be so repressed--"

"--I'm not repressed--"

"That you can't talk about sex in public--"

"--It's inappropriate!" America dropped the pillows in a heap. One bounced into Russia's lap, and two others slipped and rolled onto the floor again.

"--But you recognize a bullet vibrator instantly." Russia caught his hand, tugged him down beside him. America seesawed on the edge of the bed as it yawned and pitched and spilled him in towards the middle. Russia ended up storm-tossed half-over him.

America definitely wanted to die.

"I saw one in a magazine?" he tried. Wet his lips. Swallowed. He felt…really dry, for some reason.

Russia smiled down at him. "Places like this are a part of you, but they make you uncomfortable."

America flipped over, scrambled towards the edge of the bed. It put up a hell of a fight. He ended up flailing out at the end, grabbing the corner of the night stand, and--hitting a button, or something, because--

--The bed started turning--

He grabbed onto the coverlet. Russia grabbed onto his ankle. That was worse.

--Also the lights were--all the lights suddenly--

The lights in the room snapped off, but a ring of soft glowing spotlights shone on from the floor all around them and struck a mirror ball hung from the ceiling. A thousand shimmering reflections burst across the room, scattered and danced over the velvet coverlet, and--Russia's hair and skin. Russia blinked at the mirror ball, and the lights made little stars in his eyes.

--And then--oh God--the music--

"You think you're so way out, and you've got all the action--"

"Marvin Gaye." America cringed down to his soul. "Marvin fucking Gaye, are you kidding me?"

"Still you can't find no satisfaction--"

"Is this a joke? Am I in hell? Russia, did we crash out on the freeway and now I'm in--"

"Baby, try me, and I'll make you see--"

America squirmed onto his side and looked down the length of the hectacre bed, towards Russia. Russia lay on his back, his feet drawn up onto the mattress, and he moved his hand back and forth through the air, swishing at those turning lights like a dazzled kitten. Something went a little quiet in America's chest.

"You ain't livin' until you're lovin', baby--"

"Russia?" he tried.

Russia watched the lights move across the back of his hand. "Look," he said breathlessly.

"You ain't livin' until you're lovin', baby…"

A smile tugged at the corner of America's mouth. He pushed himself up to his hip. His elbow wobbled as the water mattress swerved. "No rotate-y light beds in the USSR either, huh?"

Russia tipped his head back and smiled at him upside-down. His ashy hair spilled across the cranberry coverlet.

America breathed deeply, and wondered if this was the first time he had since they'd first walked into the room. He skipped onto his back and wriggled up next to Russia, so they lay on the bed in opposite directions, so their heads were nearly level.

"Oh until you fall, you ain't livin' at all…"

"Well you should get one," America murmured, and tugged off his glasses, shut them on his chest, and folded his arm over his eyes. "You look cute as hell."

"Ah ah, at all, at all…"

Russia didn't appear to hear him. He tried to follow a spot of light with his fingertips, and shifted heavily onto his side when the bed spun it out of reach. He blinked at America. "A condom just fell out of your pocket."

America shut his eyes. "It's not mine."


There was a long silence. America looked at him. Russia was smiling. God, those soft deep sweet violet eyes, they were gonna be the death of him. "It's really not," he added. "They were in the bathroom, and, and I was gonna hide them, and--but then--"

"You like to kiss and run--"

"America," Russia sighed. "Turn off the music."

America jerked upright, lurched off the bed, and staggered dizzily around to the night stand. He punched a few buttons until Marvin Gaye stopped, and the turning stopped, and the whir of the bed motor squealed and fell silent--but he left the tiny spotlights on. It was very quiet in their room.

He looked at Russia, dappled in soft white lights.

Russia reached a hand out to him, a crooked smile on his face. "You don't need to sleep on the floor."

"Russia--" America started, "If we have sex in this room, I will never, ever, ever respect myself again--"

"That would not trouble me. But just come here."

America climbed into the bed again. It sloshed. He fell over.

Russia caught him.

America stared into his eyes from four inches away. "This is really not supposed to be romantic," he managed, and he wanted to kick himself down a few flights of stairs for that quiver in his voice. "It's skeevy, and weird, a-and you found a vibrator in the pillows, and--"

Russia kissed him. America went limp. By the time he surfaced, his fingers were curled into Russia's sleeves. He gazed into Russia, blushing and awed. Starlight filled the air between them.

Russia grazed America's wayward lick of hair off his forehead. "You are a very strange nation," he murmured.

America's knee caught and jogged into the bed. They wobbled. Russia's hold on him tightened. America would go to his grave swearing it was an accident.

Russia's lips were cool and gentle and delicate as they came to rest above his pulse. America inhaled. A large, strong hand slid up beneath the hem of his bomber jacket, and--and he--

In the end they both broke the near-silence, but those thousands of little lights spangled on and on.

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